


He Dreams in Red and Blue

by EradiKate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Romance, F/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Shipper on Deck, occasional canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EradiKate/pseuds/EradiKate
Summary: Six months after Fiona Trevelyan defeated Corypheus, she takes desperate measures to get Cullen to notice her.  Instead, she sets off a chain of events she's not quite ready to handle.  Spoilers leading up to Trespasser.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, The Iron Bull/Female Trevelyan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 16





	1. A Small Wardrobe Matter

Cullen sighed and adjusted his collar for approximately the hundredth time since he’d donned his dress uniform half an hour ago. It was the last evening of the Inquisition’s official visit to Orlais, nearly six months after the defeat of Corypheus, and Cullen was heartily sick of everything in the Maker-forsaken Winter Palace. The talks were interminable, the language unpronounceable, and (worst of all) the food was wholly unsatisfying. Even the music, something he normally enjoyed, grated on his ears and he scowled ferociously in the direction of the gallery.

His sour expression didn’t pass unnoticed, if Sera’s cackle was anything to go by. Cullen was fairly confident she hadn’t been wearing her dress uniform a moment longer than he had, but she still managed to make it look rumpled. At least she looked at ease. As far as he could tell, none of the lady Inquisitor’s other companions shared his profound lack of composure.

Or maybe not. “Maker’s breath,” Blackwall muttered as Dorian joined the group in the vestibule. “What’s keeping her ladyship? Dinner will be served soon and I’d rather not eat cold snails.”

“A small wardrobe matter,” the altus responded, taking his place in the lineup next to Leliana. “She’ll be down in a moment. Cullen, you’re to escort her tonight. Something about reminding Orlais that we are no fringe group to be ignored.”

“A wardrobe matter?” There was no mistaking the suspicion in Cassandra’s voice. “Surely you did not–” She fell silent as Varric nudged her.

“Lady Trevelyan and I made the adjustment with some help from Madame de Fer,” Josephine said in a tone that politely dared anyone to ask further questions. “Dorian was kind enough to offer his assistance as well.”

Maker’s breath, Cullen thought, closing his eyes and huffing out another deep sigh, this is about fashion? Surely we have better things to occupy ourselves, even in Orlais.

Before he could voice his displeasure, however, a red-gowned figure that could only have been Fiona Trevelyan appeared next to him and took his arm. “Madame de Fer was right,” she said, a slight rasp to her voice. “Emperor de Chalons needs reminding that we represent the nobility of many nations as well as the strength of our military.”

“Andraste’s tits, Inky!” Sera exclaimed. “Look at yours!”

Caught off guard, Cullen turned to take in the Inquisitor’s appearance, a reaction he very nearly regretted. It wasn’t that he found it to his distaste, rather it was quite the opposite.

He’d never seen her wear a gown before. At first glance, it appeared quite chaste with a neckline that covered her collarbones and a long, full skirt that brushed the stone floor. Then he noticed that the short, loose sleeves had been cut to show off the lean muscles of her arms and that the back of her bodice dipped into a deep V to display her equally admirable shoulders. Something made of black leather and worked with gold thread cinched at her waist and drew the eye to the curve of her hips. He dared not look any higher, because with so much of her smooth, golden, temptingly naked back on display he suspected she wore no chemise and Maker take him, he was already imagining the fullness of her breasts straining against fine scarlet silk. No doubt that was what had prompted Sera’s response.

The others were more restrained though no less approving, and before Cullen could quite gather his wits the party was already moving into the grand hall. Habit alone saved him from making any unforgivable blunders of etiquette. As he bowed first to Fiona and then to the emperor, he noticed that de Chalons did not share his apprehensions and was openly admiring her beauty in a way that made his skin crawl. Worse, Fiona seemed to be enjoying the attention.

Cullen cursed himself for his own impatience, for willing the diplomatic talks to be over. At least those were strictly business. Now he was caught in a web of innumerable forks and flirtations, the foie gras devoid of any flavor as the flames of jealousy consumed him. He couldn’t make out what Gaspard was saying to elicit such a response, but Fiona’s laugh rippled unmistakably through the hall. How could he look on her so boldly, speak to her so carelessly? Every time his own gaze caught on her face, haloed by waves of coppery-bronze hair, he tore himself away, feeling as Andraste must have when first she saw the Maker’s face.

“He forgets,” Cole murmured from his left, “she was His chosen.”

“We talked about this, kid,” Varric hissed. “Not at the table. Curly’s uncomfortable enough as it is.”

The courses dragged on, Cullen’s stomach clenching with a painful mix of envy and hunger. He recognized little of what he managed to choke down and remembered none of it, ready to excuse himself from the after-dinner dancing at a moment’s notice. He had little doubt that Josephine would make her disapproval known one way or another, but when he saw the emperor’s hand drift to Fiona’s lower back as they led the procession into the ballroom, he found he could not bring himself to care.

He positioned himself near the doors to the terrace, prepared to bolt as soon as Leliana turned away, but instead yelped in surprise when a large hand gripped his shoulder. “Cullen,” Iron Bull rumbled, jovial and not in the least discomfited, “come with me. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Oh, er,” Cullen stammered, casting about for an excuse that might work, “I was about to retire for the evening. I’m, ah, afraid dinner was a bit too elaborate for me.”

“Exactly.” Bull nodded and grabbed his arm. “That’s why I talked one of the serving girls into setting aside something that passes for real food or at least comes close. I asked Blackwall to join us but he’s too busy making puppy eyes at the ambassador.” Indeed, Blackwall was standing just behind Josephine’s elbow, apparently content simply in her presence.

“You make a compelling argument,” Cullen said helplessly, unable to avoid seeing Fiona float gracefully across the floor on Gaspard’s arm. “If you insist.”

“Don’t make me drag you, Commander. Follow me; we’re not going far.”

Cullen paused for the barest moment, his hunger and self-consciousness fighting a brief but fierce battle for the remainder of his night. Hunger won, aided by the fact that he’d be far less awkward if only Bull was around. He hurried after Bull, curious to see what exactly constituted real food at Halamshiral.

Iron Bull hadn’t exaggerated when he said they weren’t going far. Two doors and a short side hall brought them to a small parlor (or perhaps it was a salon, Cullen couldn’t be sure). A few lamps and a little fire lit the room and in the middle, several comfortable chairs surrounded a low table topped with a gold cloth. The furnishings were as ornate as he’d expected, but the food set out looked promisingly simple. One was a platter of cold meats, another held an assortment of roasted vegetables, and a third was piled with apple tarts that looked like nothing Cullen had ever seen. A few bottles of wine accompanied them as well as a flagon of ale.

Bull picked up what looked like a chicken leg, though it appeared tiny in his hand. “Do you think this is pheasant? I was sort of hoping for turkey.”

“I’m not complaining,” Cullen replied, piling his plate with several pieces and a small heap of vegetables. “Anything is better than whatever fish we were served earlier.”

“Sole,” Bull supplied, then clarified at Cullen’s blank look. “It’s a kind of fish. Weird, though.”

After that, the two men ate in a companionable quiet, Cullen privately thankful that he only had to manage one fork. The cold pheasant was delicious and even though his uniform still chafed him and the possessive hand Gaspard laid on Fiona still prickled him with jealousy, he let himself begin to enjoy the evening.

Before long, Iron Bull sighed in satisfaction and put down his fork to pick up one of the bottles of wine. “Cullen? Want a glass of this? I think it’s a red and if nothing else, the Orlesians know good wine.” At Cullen’s nod, he poured a generous glass and passed it over. “So, how long have you been in love with the boss?”

Cullen narrowly avoided dropping his glass, instead slopping a little wine on his breeches, the chair, and the rug. “Maker’s breath, Bull, I am not in love with Lady Trevelyan!” He realized a moment later that Bull had said the words along with him and was now struggling to contain laughter. “I fail to see how this is at all funny!”

Bull stopped trying to hold back and burst into a deep bellow of a laugh. “Oh, this is extraordinarily funny. I think the only one who doesn’t know you’re in love is the boss herself.”

Hoping to cover his embarrassment, Cullen turned his attention to mopping up the spill. “Void take me. How do you all know?”

“I’m Ben-Hassrath, remember? Varric just...knows people. Cole can hear thoughts.” Bull winced. “And Dorian’s an incorrigible gossip. Even if none of that applied, we all saw the way you looked during her grand entrance earlier, though I think Leliana’s the only other one who noticed that you turned white when she danced with the emperor.”

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen took a long pull of his wine, at a loss for other words.

“You said that already.”

“It’s not as though I could simply ask her to go for a walk in the garden at sunset! She’s the Inquisitor. I know how many princes, dukes, and magisters have asked for her hand. And soon we’ll add the emperor of Orlais to that list!” Cullen drained his glass and jumped when the door opened.

“What list would that be?” The Inquisitor sauntered into the room, her color high and a few curls escaping the knot of her hair. “Andraste’s sword, are those apple tarts? I’m famished.”

“Help yourself.” Bull offered her the platter. “I think they have some sort of cheese in them.”

“How Orlesian,” Fiona commented, taking a bite. Her blue eyes widened and she let out a little moan of pleasure that Cullen wished had nothing to do with food. “I’ll admit it, maybe sometimes Orlais does it right.”

“Hey,” Bull said with mock severity. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Lady Inquisitor.” She swatted his arm, which only made him grin.

“I’m nothing but a simple Marcher girl to Orlais,” Fiona giggled, dropping easily into the seat next to Cullen. “Everyone knows we have no manners, darling.” This was delivered in a near-perfect imitation of Madame de Fer’s tone and shocked him into coughing.

“If Orlesians think you have no manners, they must despair of mine,” Cullen mused, reaching for a tart of his own. “Unlike you, I can’t even claim noble birth.”

Fiona swallowed hastily and rose from her chair. “Oh, of course,” she muttered, her face turning redder. “I really should go back to the ballroom.”

Cullen knew he should apologize, but Fiona was so near to him that he was once again struck with an inability to speak. Instead he stood and mutely bowed, hoping that he could one day string a sentence together in her presence. He couldn’t even blame her dress—he knew from long experience that he would have been just as flustered were she wearing armor. 

When she reached the door, Fiona looked back, her expression bright but unreadable. “Bull, do you recall that offer you made me? I’d like to take you up on it, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Then she was gone in a swirl of silken skirts.

“You,” Bull pronounced, “need to tell her how you feel.”

“Easy for you to say,” Cullen mumbled. “What offer was she talking about?”

Bull looked at him pityingly. “That’s not mine to tell.”

Cullen growled in frustration and decided it was time to retire, apple tarts be damned.


	2. Interlude: Fiona

Fiona Trevelyan couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so frustrated. Looking at Cullen Rutherford in red broadcloth every day for a week had to be some new form of torment, even though Leliana had laughed herself sick when she’d asked. Her own dress uniform had apparently had no effect on him, so she’d enlisted the aid of her other advisors. If Josie harbored a delusion that the gown was simply to remind Gaspard of the Inquisition's power, why, was that really her fault?

Best-laid plans, she thought wryly. The gown had only further secured Cullen’s disapproval. No doubt he considered it (at best) foolish and (far more likely) vain. Worse, Gaspard had taken it as an invitation to express his mostly-hollow admirations. Even more unfortunately, allowing anyone to see that she was anything short of charmed would have caused further political incident, and so she’d suffered through dinner and opening of the dancing with a mask of delight.

She’d been so hungry, so tired, and so impatient that she’d gone in search of breathing room soon after and instead found Cullen sharing a chummy moment with Bull. Hoping to at least exchange pleasantries, she’d tried to joke about the evening. Cullen hadn’t even looked at her. He’d flung her noble status at her as soon as he could. And that stiff bow! Fiona hadn’t thought him capable of mockery, which made it all the worse.

And so Fiona was waiting for Bull, clad only in a cotton shift. At least he’d taken notice. Even so, something still felt a little flat. She ached with loneliness. Ever since she’d received the Maker-forsaken Mark, no man had touched her with any sort of real tenderness or (she shamelessly admitted to herself) lust. And if she could not have both, she would settle for just one. For lust, Bull would do nicely.

She drew her fingers slowly over her breasts, enjoying the cool cloth and the slight friction against her skin. She inhaled deeply, savoring the warm scent of the candles burning. Her eyes fluttered closed as she traced lines down her body, down to where her legs fell slightly apart. Her head tipped back against the divan when she brushed the top of her inner thigh, teasing herself with only the lightest of touches.

Wanting him to smell her musk before seeing anything more than her bared legs, she only lifted her shift enough to slip her fingers underneath. Fiona sighed quietly when she finally teased herself open, already hot and slick. She devoted herself to languid pleasure, slowly stroking along the length of her sex, avoiding the bundle of nerves that would lace her with much sharper ecstasy.

She drifted on the soft cloud of sensation without care for the time until her door opened and Bull’s deceitfully quiet step was heard. Smoothing the slightly-sheer white cotton over her thighs, she opened her eyes and met his gaze with a tiny flicker of disappointment that it wasn’t Cullen come to see her, impossible though that hope was.

“Hello, Bull,” Fiona murmured, all but purring his name. “I’m so glad this isn’t too much trouble.” She licked a finger idly but chilled when she saw the sadness in Bull’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Listen, boss,” Bull started, sitting down next to her. “You know I think you have the finest pair of tits in Thedas, and that watching you climb ladders is my second-favorite thing about working with the Inquisition, but we can’t have sex.”

“Excuse me?” The trained response rolled off Fiona’s tongue while she frantically looked around for her dressing gown. “Oh, bollocks, I’m sorry, Bull, I don’t mean–but why not? I thought–” 

“Let me tell you something they teach you when you become Ben-Hassrath,” Bull said, pointing at the foot of her bed, where someone had folded her robe. “When you’re working with a hostile target, you give them what they want.”

Fiona nearly leapt up to wrap herself in the dark blue wool. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“That’s only the first half of the lesson. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need,” he said, a gentle stress on _need_. “I know you think you want a quick tumble, but I can’t give you what you really need.”

She shook her head rigidly, clutching her waist. “I still don’t understand.”

“I know about Cullen, boss.” Bull stood to leave the chamber. “I can’t be a substitute for him.”

Fiona watched him walk out, torn between embarrassment and exhaustion. Then she flung herself face-first into bed, where she proceeded to lie awake for hours, writhing with frustration that far eclipsed what she’d felt only half an hour before.


	3. An Apology and A Report

The official visit was over but there were still preparations to be made before departure. As there had been little military discussion the day before, Cullen was able to ready his soldiers quickly and soon found himself at odds. Unwilling to stay idle for long, he chose to visit the stables and see if Blackwall and Dennet needed assistance with their preparations. An afternoon with many horses and few people was as close as one could get to true quiet in Orlais.

Cullen rapped quietly on the stable door, entering when he heard no response. He breathed in the honest if somewhat overpowering smell of horses, straw, and leather and let some of the stress he’d carried all week bleed out. “Hello there,” he said softly to a gray mare who poked her head out of her stall to gaze curiously at him, “has Master Dennet seen to your tack yet? We have a long journey back to Skyhold.”

The mare snorted, stomped, and tossed her mane. “Luna!” Fiona Trevelyan called, sounding amused. “Can’t I leave for two minutes without you complaining? Seanna should have named you Loony.” She appeared in the door leading to the tack room, wearing her usual riding leathers and carrying a basket full of brushes and combs. 

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Cullen said, ducking his head. “I came to offer my help readying the horses.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she responded stiffly. “I’m sorry you had to bear witness to my folly.”

“Folly?” Cullen shook his head. “Not at all. When I was a child, my mother would sing to our chickens. She claimed happy hens laid more eggs. Horses don’t lay eggs, but I can imagine talking to them might have a similar soothing effect.” Fiona stared at him, apparently at a loss for words. He realized he was rambling and hastened to add, “I was hoping you would forgive me. My behavior last night was unspeakably rude. I should have said instead that your manner leaves nothing to be desired. I apologize for upsetting you so.” He offered his hand, relieved that the speech had gone almost exactly as he’d practiced it in the mirror, even if he couldn’t control his blushing.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, setting down her basket to give his hand a quick squeeze. “Of course it’s all right. I think we’re all a little on edge right now.”

She didn’t elaborate and he chose not to press. A brief silence fell, during which Fiona sorted through various brushes and Cullen tried to think of something to say. “You say her name is Luna? Do you take her often?”

“I do,” she answered, selecting a currycomb and ducking under the bars of Luna’s stall. “She’s very fast while still being relatively quiet.” Fiona stroked Luna’s neck, smiling easily. “Though for the trip back to Skyhold, she’ll be going with one of Leliana’s scouts. That’s why I’m here. I want to spend a little time with her, make sure she knows I adore her. I don’t want her to be jealous of Judy, over there.”

She gestured to a large brown stallion with a white blaze. “Judy?” He frowned, uncertain how to put it delicately. “I think Judy is, er…”

“Male?” Fiona chuckled quietly, rubbing Luna’s flank with the currycomb. “I’m aware. His name is Judicael’s Herald, but he’s such an old scaredy-cat that I nicknamed him Judy.”

“I see,” Cullen said, thinking that perhaps ‘Curly’ wasn’t such a terrible nickname after all. “Does Varric know?”

“Does he ever,” Fiona groaned. “He wouldn’t stop complaining that I was stepping on his toes. And when he finally did stop, it was to pout that ‘Judy’ had stuck.”

“That does sound like Varric.” He leaned against a neighboring stall, patting the occupant’s muzzle when it presented itself. “I think this is the longest we’ve spoken without talking of business.”

“I daresay you’re right,” Fiona agreed, sounding slightly muffled. “Nice for a change. When we return to Skyhold, maybe we could go for a ride together.” She popped her head out of the stall to give him a quick, teasing smile. “Or we could sing to the chickens, your choice.”

“I haven’t explored much of the land around Skyhold,” Cullen admitted. “I would very much like to go riding with you, Lady Inquisitor.”

“Then it’s settled. And good thing, too. My singing would only upset the chickens.” Luna snorted. “Hush, you.”

The door banged open, revealing Master Dennet, a wheelbarrow full of blankets, and Blackwall. “Cullen!” Dennet greeted him warmly. “Glad to see you, we could use another pair of hands. Lady Inquisitor, Sister Nightingale wishes to speak with you.”

Fiona frowned slightly. “I hate to leave a job half done. Did she say what she wanted to discuss?”

“Yes, my lady,” Blackwall answered. “She said one of her scouts had a report you’d want to hear directly. You’ll find her in your parlor.”

“Then I suppose I should go straightaway.” She gave Luna’s rump an affectionate slap. “Sorry, old girl. Duty calls for us both.”

Cullen watched her go, curious as to what had changed between them, grateful for whatever had. He didn’t have long to think on the topic before Dennet cleared his throat.

“Saved the world and good with horses,” Dennet observed. “There aren’t many women like the Inquisitor.”

Much to Cullen’s horror, Blackwall started to snicker. “You don’t need to tell the commander that. He’s had his head turned.”

In what was becoming an embarrassing habit, he felt himself blanch before turning red yet again. “I suppose Dorian told you that?”

“Nope,” Blackwall said, unloading the blankets and tossing a pile of burlap sacks onto the wheelbarrow. “Sera did. She seemed to think she wasn’t the only one admiring the Lady Inquisitor last night.”

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen felt he’d used the phrase far too many times recently and tried to shift the focus. “Blackwall, if Sera really used those words to describe it I’ll eat Madame de Fer’s hat.”

“Vivienne’s hennin should be safe, then.” Blackwall grimaced. “And don’t ever let her hear you call it a hat if you want to keep breathing. I once saw her freeze a man solid because he was rude to her at a party.”

“Enough gossip, we’ve work to do,” Dennet said. “Thom, let’s load the supply wagons with feed. Commander, if it’s not too much bother, could you start by making sure the Inquisitor’s mount is properly groomed?”

Though Blackwall looked ready to make suggestive remarks, something in Cullen’s face must have stopped him. The horsemaster and the Warden left the stable again, leaving him with the company of his thoughts and the horses.

Or so he thought.

“It’s easier when it’s familiar.”

Fiona had claimed that Judicael’s Herald was a coward, but Cullen nearly jumped out of his skin while the horse looked on placidly. He quickly decided to ignore what that might have said about him and greeted the speaker instead. “Good afternoon, Cole.”

“I’m sorry,” the spirit-turned-assassin said. “I didn’t do it right. Talking is easier in the right places. She likes warmth and horses and water. They’re familiar.”

“Do you mean the Inquisitor?” Cullen couldn’t believe he was grasping at romantic advice from...well, he wasn’t quite sure exactly what Cole was, but he was going to take what he could get.

“More than that.” Cole sounded firmer than Cullen had ever heard him. “She forgets. You have to remind her.”

“What does she forget?” Cullen looked around, but Cole was nowhere to be seen. “How do I remind her?”

Evidently Cole had said all he meant to say on the subject, because the only answer Cullen received was an impatient whinny from Judy.

* * *

Fiona stared at the map in her hands, desperately trying to focus on the scout’s report.

“Based on some information from the locals regarding disappearances, spooked livestock, and strange lights, we think there’s a very good possibility of rift activity in the places marked.” The scout tried to make herself smaller. “It may be worth checking more thoroughly.”

Leliana nodded. “Thank you, Janette. Please share this information with Harding.”

With a murmured “Lady Inquisitor” and a brief salute, the scout took her leave. Fiona laid the map down, smoothing the slight wrinkles her too-tight grip had caused. Silence pressed down upon her, though Leliana seemed perfectly at ease.

“I know it’s foolish. But if it really is rift activity, there’s a chance that we might find Solas.”

“And if he is nowhere to be found?”

She bit her lip, understanding perfectly that Leliana thought it unlikely that Solas would be there. “Then at the very least, I can seal the rift. We can still make things safer.”

Something like approval warmed the spymaster’s face. “I’ll inform Josie and Cullen. Is there anyone else you’d like to know?”

Fiona considered the question. “Dorian. We may need a mage. Cassandra and Cole, too. We’ll depart early tomorrow as planned and ride ahead once we’re a fair distance from the city. I’ll send a raven when we know what we’re facing and we can plan on rejoining the caravan later.”

“Very good.”


End file.
